Oblivion Street

Hang a left into Desolation Alley where the meat-rack girls spin dead on their feet; take a right onto Cruelty Crescent, walk a crooked mile on Oblivion Street. Feast those eyes and gloat your soul on the life and death tapestry laid in despair; drink of the torture and fear apparent on the faces of those who are resident there. Junk-heads, dope-fiends in cardboard box condos, skeleton people with wild crimson eyes; whores and their pimps froze in gangster-like postures haunting neon lit streets under bruised purple skies. Keening screams of the housewives whose monkey-brained husbands leech pleasure from violence and drunken assault; shout the odds, lay the blame, give the cow what she asked for, distant sirens kick in like trapped ghosts in a vault. Bloody kids wiring Volvos then driving like crazy, glue-filled Golden Wonder bags stuck to their faces; flip the jack on two wheels then ram-raid a shop front, it’s Death Race 2000, a day at the races. Graffiti-sprayed brick where the spelling is suspect, the one slash of light in a black and grey view; shouldn’t cut so much school, or at least go to English, dyslexia strikes paint spray terrorists too. Nothing adds up or makes sense in this maelstrom, the crushed bones of youth in the flesh of dead meat; no serum of reason can cure the awful relentless great plague on Oblivion Street.